let us sport us while we may
by curtaincall2
Summary: High school AU. Mr. Holt's AP English class is full of bright but strange teenagers, and two in particular who won't stop bickering: irresponsible class clown Jake Peralta and overachiever Amy Santiago. For some strange reason, they're friends...and maybe someday they'll be something more.
1. September-October

September:

"Hey, Santiago!"

Amy looks over, towards the shout, but she knows who it's going to be before she sees, because it's only Rosa Diaz who calls everyone by their last names, like they go to Hogwarts instead of Schur High.

"Hey, Rosa. I didn't know you were in this class."

"What, you think I don't have the balls for AP English? Please."

"Right. Are you excited? Because I'm super excited."

"Dork," Rosa says, not unkindly. "Who's teaching it? Holt, right?"

Amy nods. "He's supposed to be fantastic, you know."

"Tough grader?"

"I hope so."

"Weirdo."

"Hey, I'm not the one who tried out for football. Guys' football."

"The shoulder pads are badass," Rosa shrugs. "I'm still pissed they wouldn't let me on the team. That's gotta be some kind of discrimination thing, right?"

"Maybe."

The other students are filing into the classroom now: big, burly Terry Jeffords, whom Amy knows is secretly a huge softie, and Gina Linetti, whose hair is pink today, in blatant violation of school dress code, and those two dumb jocks who aren't even good at being jocks, Hitchcock and Scully.

"Hello, Amy," says Jake Peralta, sliding into the seat next to her. Charles Boyle, behind him as usual, takes the seat next to him and commences gazing at Rosa across the room. Jake rolls his eyes.

"Hi, Jake," Amy says, smiling tightly at him. "Decided to challenge yourself for once?"

"Oh, what, 'cause this is AP you think it'll be a challenge? Dream on. You know I'm smart enough."

He's right-he is smart, smarter even than Amy, maybe, not that she'd ever admit it. But he seems allergic to effort of any kind, and that's why Amy gets As and Jake gets Bs.

"Are you ready to take on Holt the Hardass?"

"You seriously call him that?"

"Everyone calls him that."

"I am more than ready. I am going to wow him."

"Did you get him a cute little present? An apple?"

"Apple-shaped pencil sharpener," Amy mumbles.

"Oh, that is cute," Jake says sarcastically. "You're such a little suck-up."

"I just want to make a good impression! All this 'Holt the Hardass' talk, you'd think you'd want the same thing."

"What did you just call me?" He's behind her, of course. Holt, "the Hardass," toughest teacher there is, and he's just heard her insult him. Great job, Amy.

"Mr. Holt! I, um, I was just quoting someone else…"

"I don't need an explanation."

Amy nods quickly, shoots Jake a dirty look (how dare he not warn her?), and fixes her attention on Holt, anxious to make a better second impression than she has a first.

"Welcome to AP English Literature," he's saying, staring at them over his glasses. "I trust you are aware that AP stands for Advanced Placement, and therefore this is one of the most rigorous classes offered in this institution. If you feel you cannot handle the upcoming workload, I advise you to drop this class. There are still, I believe, some seats open in the honors section."

Amy sits up straighter. This is more like it; a challenge she can dig her teeth into. Holt can't help but be impressed once he reads her writing, once he hears her analysis in class.

"I expect a classroom to operate efficiently. Dress code will be strictly-" (he glances meaningfully at Gina) "-enforced, and I will not tolerate talking out of turn, or frivolous behavior of any sort. Assignments will be on time, or they will receive a zero. I do not give extensions and I do not accept excuses. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Amy chirps, well ahead of the rest of the class. Jake rolls his eyes, and Rosa sighs, but she thinks she sees a hint of a smile on Holt's face-though it's hard to tell.

They're dismissed with fifty pages of reading for the next day, and it turns out most of them have the same lunch, so Holt's AP English class heads down to the cafeteria together.  
"Well," says Jake loudly, "Holt's nickname is not undeserved."

"I like him," Amy counters quickly. "You have to admire his strength of character."

"He doesn't take bullshit from anyone, I'm guessing," Jake admits. "Which means you'll be in a bit of a pickle, won't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"All that I'm-so-diligent crap. Holt won't fall for that."

"It's not crap! I really do work hard."

"You're admitting to having no life?"

"I do so have a life! A life of rewarding work."

"In what sense is slaving away at homework vaguely rewarding-never mind. Hey, question."

"Yeah?"

"Want to go to winter formal with me?"

Amy's taken aback. One of the less-pleasant side effects of having no life is never getting asked to things like winter formal. So she says the only thing she can think of.

"It's September. Why are you asking now?"

"Gotta scoop you up before someone else does."

She squints at him, not sure if he's kidding or not. "Are you for real?"

"What, you think I'm that far out of your league?"

"You wish. No, I mean-wouldn't you want to bring, like, a date?"

"Yeah. You."

"Why?" She's frankly baffled. Yeah, okay, she and Jake are sort of friends, and sure, he's kind of cute, in a scruffy teenage-boy way, but this matter-of-fact romantic overture is out of left field.

"It'll be fun. Come on."

Amy's still confused, but hey, what the heck, right? And she can't really think of a polite way to say no, and it's not like the guy's asking her to marry him. "All right, sure."

"Sweeeeet. I'll get on hiring a limo."

"Oh, wonderful." She rolls her eyes and walks ahead of him into the cafeteria, hoping that maybe by December he'll have forgotten about this whole thing.

October:

Unsurprisingly, Jake and Holt don't exactly get along. Jake slouches in his seat and makes smart-ass comments, and half the time Amy's not sure whether he's even done the reading. But Holt hasn't kicked him out of class yet, or even sent him to the principal's office, and Amy has this weird feeling like maybe the Hardass likes Jake.

This pisses her off, because she wants to be Holt's favorite. She's been teacher's pet since kindergarten, because how do you not like the girl who does all her homework and participates in class and never, ever breaks the rules? But even though she's turned in two Santiago-style, single-spaced, double-sided papers, all she's getting back are A-minuses and comments to "be more concise" and "stay within the length limits." Not that constructive criticism isn't great, because it is, but it would sure be nice to get a little adulation once in a while.

"Hey, how'd you do on that Great Gatsby essay?" Gina asks the lunch table. "Because I have to tell you, I did not understand that shit about the green light. Making us write about it is clearly discrimination against color-blind people."

"B," Rosa says tersely.

"I got a B, too!" Charles chimes in eagerly. "You know what they say about great minds…"

"That they get acceptable grades on papers? What, did you cheat off me or something, Boyle?"

"No! No, of course not, I mean, how would I even do that without Holt noticing…"

"I'm just messing with you." Rosa stops him with a hint of a smile. "Calm down, little guy."

"I got a B-plus," says Jake, "which I figure is pretty good considering I only read the last two pages of the book."

"Are you kidding me?" Amy asks, outraged. "You didn't even read it? It's not like it's that long!"

"I didn't need to. Essay was on the last two pages, I read the last two pages. Bam, done."

"Well," Amy says, smiling, "I read the entire thing, twice, and I did better than you, so maybe your method isn't all that rewarding."

"Yeah, but I don't really care, though, is the thing."

"You ought to! Junior year grades are the number-one thing colleges look at, you know. If you want a shot at getting into an Ivy-"

Jake rolls his eyes. "Amy, you're the only one who gives a fuck about getting into an Ivy. I just have a more lassiez-faire attitude. Why stress myself out over something I can't control? Right, Terry?"

Terry looks up from his yogurt. "I wasn't listening. Sorry. What?"

"You agree with me that being stressed out is a waste of time?"

Terry nods. "Yeah. I used to be so hung up on stuff, like my performance on the field, my relationship with my girlfriend, everything. But then I had that breakdown-you all remember the Jeffords Debacle from last year-and now my therapist says that I'm doing way better at letting things go."

"See. Maybe you need therapy, Amy."

"Maybe you need to mind your own business!"

"Maybe you ought to take your own advice! Do whatever the fuck you want about college, I don't care, just don't pressure me to do the same, all right?"

"All right! Geez. But you know-" She stops herself, embarrassed.

"What?"

"You know I wouldn't be saying this stuff if I didn't think you had potential, right? I mean, God, Jake, you didn't even read the damn book and you did almost as well as me. Think about what you could do if you put some effort in every once in a while!"

"My life, my choices," Jake says, "but, for serious, I appreciate your concern. Truce?"

"Truce."

On Halloween, Holt is absent for the first time. The AP English class is not assigned a substitute. Instead, Principal Goor wheels in the school's derelict television, presses play on a DVD copy of the Great Gatsby movie from 1974, turns down the lights, and leaves with a warning not to make too much noise.

"Anyone want some herbed popcorn?" Charles asks, proffering a bowl to the room at large.

"You knew we were gonna be watching a movie today?"

"No, I just always keep a supply on hand. It's a deliciously savory snack."

"Okay," says Jake, "who wants to run down to the library and get a real movie?"

"Slasher flick," Rosa answers, and is out the door before anyone can object.

"Should we be doing this?" Amy asks, and kind of hates herself for always being the person who asks that question.

"Relax," Jake says, rolling his eyes. "We are told to watch a movie. We watch a movie. Fact that it's a different movie? Not all that important."

Amy sighs. "Look, you may not take anything seriously, but-"

"I resent that! I take a lot of things very seriously indeed."

"Oh yeah? Name some."

"To begin with, my Halloween costume. I have elected to go as Woody from Toy Story, and Charles has agreed to be my Buzz Lightyear. And therefore I have, for the past three months, been engaged in a harrowing Internet search for the best possible ten-gallon hat. Tell me that's not serious?"

"You still go trick-or-treating?" Amy asks incredulously. "I stopped years ago."

"Oh, Amy, you precious innocent. You may not have heard of that cultural touchstone known as the Halloween party, but for us youths it is a night of debauchery and costumed fun. A latter-day masked ball, if you will."

"Do you want to come, Amy?" Charles offers. "A whole bunch of us are going to be there."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not really a Halloween person."

"Or a party person," Jake mutters.

"Oh, shots fired!" Gina reaches over and grabs some of Charles' popcorn. "This is gonna be good."

"Anyway," Charles says, "if you change your mind, the party's at Hitchcock's house. That means he has to clean it up."

Amy nods, hoping it seems noncommittal, and is saved by Rosa's re-entrance.

"All right. I got Scream, Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th. What d'you guys think?"

That night, against her better judgement, Amy sneaks out of the house and over to Hitchcock's. She has, of course, no intention of putting on a costume, but in order to have something to say, she throws on an Oxford shirt and hangs a cardboard comma around her neck: the Oxford Comma. Which most of her peers ought to find pretty damn frightening, if their essays are any indication.

No one even looks at her, though; the door's opened by some guy she doesn't recognize, and the house is so dark and packed that she can't find anyone she knows in the swarming masses. The music's blaring, some song she knows but doesn't like, and it seems like everywhere she turns someone's grinding against someone else, or taking another shot of whatever the hell's in those bottles, or drunkenly making out in a corner.

Halloween is definitely scary, all right.

This was a bad idea. She stumbles back out the door, walks home with ringing ears and vicarious nausea.

It's not, she insists to herself, that she doesn't like to loosen up. It's that standing in that crowd of indistinguishable bodies makes her feel hollow, fills her with a longing to connect.

She's fucking terrible at being young and carefree.


	2. November

November:

"I have a very exciting surprise for you," Holt says, and Amy's once again frustrated by her inability to tell whether he's being serious.

"Oh, great," Jake mutters next to her. "Probably a super-duper fun pop quiz or something!"

"Mr. Peralta," Holt says sternly, "if you wish to speak in my class, you will need to raise your hand. We have been over this. And you will not be having a pop quiz. I have arranged for our class to take a field trip Friday evening to a performance of Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing. It should be a delightful evening full of laughter and poetry. That is all."

Amy gives an involuntary little hop in her seat, because this is pretty exciting news, honestly. Rosa shakes her head and rolls her eyes in response, but not disapprovingly, and she's glad that no one else seems to have noticed. Because, honestly, it's kind of embarrassing that she's this excited about Shakespeare, right? And they probably think that she's only pretending to get Holt to like her. Which, okay, she definitely does want him to like her, there's no denying that, but she's also legitimately excited, because Much Ado About Nothing is her favorite play, and Beatrice is her favorite heroine.

"I expect you," Holt was saying, "to have finished the play by Friday. You are to divide up into pairs and prepare scenes to read for the class. My past experience has indicated that leaving you to choose your own partners and scenes will result in tedious squabbling, so your assignments will be posted on the class webpage tonight. You may email me with questions."

Amy's assigned partner, she discovers that night, is Jake. She decides to take this as an indication of Holt's esteem for her, because clearly Jake needs someone to rein him in, and this means Holt trusts her with the task.

So she texts Jake that night, because they're going to need to start on this immediately if they're going to wow Holt.

AMY: When are you free tomorrow? We should start rehearsing.

JAKE: yeah is that really necessary though? i'm pretty sure i can read out loud without rehearsing

AMY: Come on! You know we need to practice intonation and emoting and all that stuff.

JAKE: i think the assignment was just to read the scene, chill

AMY: Have you never heard of going above and beyond?

JAKE: i think faint whispers may have reached my ears

AMY: Even if you don't care about this, I do, and I can't do well without your help.

JAKE: fine, i'm free third period.

AMY: YES! See you then!

The start of third period finds them in an unused classroom, holding printouts of the scene and looking at each other awkwardly.

"All right," Amy says, "it's your line first."

Jake clears his throat. "Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?"

"Yea, and I will weep a while longer."

"I will not desire that."

"You have no reason, I do it freely."

"Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged." Jake stops and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. You know I didn't read the play. What's going on?"

"Well, Beatrice-that's me-is sad because her cousin just got left at the altar by Claudio, who's a friend of Benedick-that's you."

"Got it."

"Ah," Amy continues, "how much the man might deserve of me that would right her!"

"Is there any way to show such friendship?"

"A very even way, but no such friend."

"May a man do it?"

"It is a man's office, but not yours."

"I do love nothing in the world so well as you, is not that strange?" Jake stops again. "Wait, what?"

"Oh yeah," Amy says, "also Benedick and Beatrice are in love, but they haven't admitted it yet."

"It looks like they just did," Jake says dryly.

"Well, yeah. That's part of the point of this scene. Did you not even read the SparkNotes?"

"I did not. Why bother when I have you?"

"Thanks ever so much."

"I do love nothing in the world so well as you...helping me with my homework."

"And to think you didn't want to rehearse."

"No, this is great. Now I can say something totally insightful in class, and Holt will think I read the play."

"Why don't you just read it? It's not even that long."

"We're going to see it in a few days, aren't we?"

"Yeah, and?"

"Clearly I don't wanna be spoiled."

"You're unbelievable."

"Say your lines, Beatrice. I thought we were here to rehearse."

Amy rolls her eyes, but picks the script back up again. He's right, after all. They're just working together on a project. It's not like they ever hang out normally: if they weren't in the same classes, she wonders, would they even be friends? Or, on the other hand, would they be better friends if she didn't for some bizarre reason see him as her rival?

Holt insists they present the scenes in the order they take place in the play, which means Amy and Jake don't have to go until near the end of the period. She wishes they were dead last, the better to make a strong positive final impression, but it can't be helped, so she settles in to watch her less-prepared classmates make fools of themselves.

Hitchcock and Scully are up first, and Amy can't believe Holt put them together; they're both such train wrecks that she finds herself simultaneously amused at their incompetence, irritated at the butchery of the text, and pleased that she has no competition on that front, at least. They stumble their way through a scene between Claudio and Don Pedro (Scully over-pronounces all the Italian names, and Hitchcock says "hear-tick" instead of "heretic," and Amy's dying with secondhand shame), and sit down to unenthusiastic applause from the class and a look from Holt that's probably disapproval.

Terry and Rosa are better, but for some reason Rosa's reading the man's part and Terry the woman's. Weirdly, it kinda works. Terry's not particularly subtle, but he's more than enthusiastic enough to make up for it, practically shouting his lines, and Rosa's more into it than Amy would have expected, snarling at him, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, stamping her laced combat boots with surprisingly well-timed emphasis. "You are more intemperate in your blood than Venus, or those pampered animals that rage in savage sensuality!"

There isn't even any snickering at the word "sensuality," a show of unusual restraint from this class. Even Holt's eyebrows are raised. "Ms. Diaz," he says, when they're done, "have you ever considered auditioning for one of the school plays? That was quite impressive."

"Thanks," Rosa says tersely, and sits back down again with an expression somewhere between embarrassment and pride. She returns Terry's high-five, though, and smiles back when Amy gives her a thumbs-up from across the room.

Because, yeah, Amy can so be happy for her friend's success, no matter how much she desperately wants Holt to be complimenting her. But Rosa and Terry are going to be a hard act to follow, and Jake and Amy are up next.

"Don't worry," he says in her ear on their way to the front of the classroom. "We got this."

And the beginning of the scene goes fairly well, if predictably. Jake manages to say all the lines as though he understands them (for which Amy takes full credit), and there aren't any awkward gaps or pauses in the dialogue.

"I protest," Jake says, with a strange blend of gallantry and humility, "I love thee."

"Why, then, God forgive me!"

"What offence, sweet Beatrice?"  
"You have stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to protest that I loved you."

"And do it with all thy heart."

"I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest."

"And, scene!" says Jake, bowing extravagantly before the class.

"That was...satisfactory," says Holt. "You two have excellent chemistry."

Which is a weird thing to hear from their English teacher.

Holt insists that they look "presentable" for the play that night, which means ties for the guys and skirts or dresses for the girls. Amy changes in an empty classroom after school, from jeans and a T-shirt into a dark blue A-line dress. She doesn't love the dress: she's more of a bright colors girl, truth be told, but every time she takes something pretty and daring out of her closet she ends up putting it back in again, too afraid (which is ridiculous) to wear it outside the house. So she's in sensible navy, and when she meets up with the rest of the class to go to the theater, no one comments on her outfit at all.

It's strange, seeing everyone dressed up; Charles and Terry fumbling with their ties, Gina in a ridiculous patterned skirt that somehow totally works, and Rosa, totally unexpectedly, looking absolutely fabulous in curve-hugging black. Charles' eyes nearly pop out of his head when he sees her, and Amy can't fault him, because she herself is having trouble looking away.

"Damn, girl, you look terrific!" says Gina approvingly. "Who're you dressing up for?"

"Myself," Rosa snaps back, but she's got a little smile underneath, and she adds, "Thanks, though, glad you like it," in a barely audible mutter.

"What's up, my Shakes-peeps?" Jake strolls over, and Amy groans, because he's taken the command to wear a tie and run with it, sporting a bright green monstrosity with red dots.  
"I wish I were color-blind," she says, shielding her eyes. "Seriously, why would you wear that?"

"Um, why would I not? It's awesome. Plus, I didn't own a tie, and this bad boy was ninety-five cents. It's a homage, if you will, to Macklemore, the Bard of our time."

"Why didn't you just borrow a tie from your dad or something?" Hitchcock asks, not that his tie is anything great.

"Because," Jake retorts, "I don't happen to have a dad anymore, thanks so much for reminding me."

Amy sucks in a breath. This is not good.

"Hey," she says to Jake, casually, "have you ever read any other Shakespeare plays?"

He gives her a weird look, and she herself isn't even really sure where she's going with this. "I haven't even read this one."

"So that's a no?"  
"It is indeed."

"Okay, well, did you see The Lion King?"  
"Um, do you mean, did I have a childhood? I still remember all the words to 'I Just Can't Wait to Be King.' That movie was my jam."

"Did you know that it's based on Hamlet?"

"Oh. Huh. Cool."

"Yeah," says Charles, and it seems he's picked up on Operation-Get-Jake's-Mind-Off-His-Dad, because he chimes in with, "And what about Ten Things I Hate About You? Definitely a teen rom-com for the ages. And based on Taming of the Shrew."

"Ugh," says Rosa, "I hate that movie. She's an awesome badass until some guy comes along and fucks it up, and we're supposed to think that's romantic? No thank you."

"Not 'some guy,'" Gina says with horror. "Heath Ledger. Makes all the difference."

"Nope."

Amy grins, because that's a social situation navigated with poise and grace, an awkward moment defused (and God knows she can't stand awkward moments).

Holt shows up, in the same suit he wore to teach class that day, and begins herding them down the street towards the subway. Amy's in the middle of the pack when she hears Jake's voice next to her.

"I noticed what you did there, you know."

"What?"

"Changing the topic. From my dad."

"Yeah, no problem."  
"I just wanted to say thanks."

Amy squirmed. "You're welcome."

"And thanks for making me practice that stupid scene. I know I, uh, I didn't give you the easiest time about it. But, you know, it's people like you that get shit done, ambitious people, and it's kinda cool when slackers like me get to go along for the ride." Amy nods, not sure what to say back, because this is an awful lot of emotion from Jake. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at the ground, and they walk on for a moment in silence.

"Oh, and, uh," he says, glancing back up at her, "you look really pretty tonight."

Before she has time to say "thanks," or "what the hell," or "keep it in your pants, Peralta," he's fallen back into the crowd, and she's walking alone again.


	3. December, Part 1

Thanksgiving break is over, and Jake hasn't mentioned his invitation to winter formal since the day he asked her. Which leaves Amy worried, because she doesn't want to stand him up, if he was actually asking her, because they're friends, after all, and that's not the sort of thing you do to a friend. But if he was joking, she sure as hell doesn't want to show up to the dance and look like an idiot when he doesn't pay any attention to her.

She knows that the reasonable thing to do is just go ahead and ask him: a simple, "Hey, we still on for winter formal?" would do the trick. But she feels incapable of being casual about this, so she resorts to the age-old strategy of the intermediary.

"Hey, Gina," she says, one day before class, figuring that Gina a) is up on all gossip ever and b) has known Jake since they were in the womb, practically, so she's most likely to know what's going on-"Hey, Gina, were you planning on going to winter formal?"

Gina looks up from her phone with raised eyebrows. "Oh, I don't know, why don't you ask THE SIXTEEN SUPER-HOT GUYS who are currently vying for my hand?"

"So, yes?"

"Aaah-bsolutely."

"Oh, cool."

"Why are you asking?"

Amy's stymied. The subject's out there, but how exactly is she supposed to bring it around to Jake?

"Oh, I, uh, I was wondering if you had a dress yet? Because if not, we should totally go shopping together. Or whatever. I'm cool with whatever. I'm cool."

"Oh, yeah," Gina says, "you're going with Jake on that weird-ass half-date thing."

"I am? I mean, yeah, I am."

Gina doesn't seem to catch the stumble, though, because she just says, "Kay, let's go this weekend," and goes back to playing Kwazy Kupcakes.

So, okay. She's apparently still going with Jake. Which is good, right?

Rosa leans over and taps her on the shoulder. "Santiago, you're going to winter formal?"

"Yeah. You?"

"I dunno," she says flatly. "Boyle asked me."

"Of course he did."

"And I told him I'd think about it."

"Wait, what? I thought you weren't into him."

"I'm not. But, I don't know, you're going with Jake, and you're not into him, right? So…"

"But Jake and I are just friends. Charles definitely wants more than that."

Rosa shrugs. "He knows it's not gonna happen."

Amy's opening her mouth to disagree when Jake and Charles walk in, and she quickly changes the subject.

"Well, do you want to go dress shopping with me and Gina this weekend, then?"

"Sure, why not?" Rosa does her little half-smile thing, and Amy grins back widely.

"Dress shopping, huh?" Jake asks, sliding into his seat next to her and slouching down. "What's the occasion, ladies?"

"Winter formal," Gina tells him.

"Oh!" He looks over at Amy. "I have high expectations, then. For reference purposes: I like red, purple, and blue, and I'm not so much a fan of the strapless."

"Thank you so much for the information," Amy says, rolling her eyes.

"What? Don't you want your dress to match the corsage I'm going to bring you?"

"Oh, a corsage? Wow, you're really going all out, aren't you?"

"You betcha. I even looked into hiring a limo, but then I realized it would cost several hundred dollars and I have no money."

Amy still can't tell if he's joking or not. Corsage, limo...this sounds like a real date. Is he into her like...like that?

Of course not, she tells herself sternly. They're friends, and they're going to winter formal as friends, and this is just Jake being silly. Jake being Jake.

She's spared having to think of something clever to say in response by Holt entering the room.

"I hope each of you had a pleasant Thanksgiving," he says, putting his books down on the table.

"How was your holiday, Mr. Holt?" Amy blurts out, then curses herself for sounding like a suck-up.

"It was extremely enjoyable, Ms. Santiago. I had a spirited discussion with several of my relatives regarding controversial political points of disagreement."

"Very nice, sir," Amy says, still not able to tell if he's being sarcastic.

"Now, today we commence our unit on poetry," Holt continues, "and I believe I asked all of you to bring in a winter-themed poem to read aloud to the class. Who would like to go first?"

"Oh, I would," Jake says, and everyone swivels to look at him, because Jake volunteering in class is far from normal.

"Very well, Mr. Peralta, go right ahead."

Jake clears his throat. "All is quiet on New Year's Day. A world in white gets underway. I want to be with you, be with you, night and day. Nothing changes on New Year's Day. I will be with you again. I will be with you again. Under a blood red sky, a crowd has gathered, black and white. Arms entwined, the chosen few. The newspaper says, says, say it's true, it's true, we can break through. Though torn in two we can be one. I, I will begin again. I, I will begin again. Oh, maybe the time is right. Oh, maybe tonight, I will be with you again, I will be with you again. And so we are told this is the golden age, and gold is the reason for the wars we wage. Though I want to be with you, be with you, night and day, nothing changes on New Year's Day."

He grins impishly and looks around, meeting Amy's Death Glare with a wink.

"I don't understand, Mr. Peralta," Holt says calmly. "That does not sound like a particularly good poem."

"That's because it isn't," Amy pipes up.

"What do you mean, Ms. Santiago?"

"Those are song lyrics. God, Jake, do you not even understand what a poem is?"

"Ah, yes," says Holt, "now I recognize the words to the U2 classic 'New Year's Day.' I don't appreciate your attempt to undermine this assignment."

"Right. Sorry. Just thought I'd lighten the mood a bit," says a chastened Jake.

"You were unsuccessful," replies Holt, and the class moves on.

On Saturday, Amy meets Gina and Rosa at the mall.

"Okay," she says, "so I figure we should be able to do this in just a few hours. I ranked all the stores by likelihood of containing something good, and then plotted out exactly how much time we ought to spend in each, with breaks built in for trying stuff on and a trip to the food court."

"Gimme that," says Rosa, and snatches Amy's schedule out of her hand. "No. This is bullshit." She crumples the paper up and tosses it into a nearby trash can. "It's a goddamn shopping trip. This level of planning is not necessary."

Gina snaps her gum. "I'm gonna have to go with Scary Lady on this one. Amy, no offense, you're adorable, but this whole thing?" She gestures at Amy's outfit. "Not exactly winter-formal-level sexy here, girl."

"What do you mean?" Amy asks indignantly. "I look fine!"

"Fine as in how'd-you-do-on-that-test fine, sweetheart. Not_ fine_ fine. We're gonna get you to _fine_ fine. You too, boss bitch," she adds, glancing over at Rosa. "I saw you in that slinky black number when we went to that play. You looked hot. Use that."

Rosa does not look pleased, but she doesn't say anything.

"All right, well, where do you suggest we start?" Amy snaps.

"We're going in here," Gina says, and shepherds them into Macy's. "All right. Thirty minutes on the clock. Grab whatever looks good to you and meet me at the fitting rooms then, got it?"

"Got it," Amy and Rosa chorus.

Half an hour later, Amy approaches the fitting room, dresses slung over her arm, where Rosa's waiting.

"You only picked out one thing," Amy says, confused.

"Yeah," says Rosa. "I'm gonna look great in it."

She holds it up for Amy to see, and she can't help agreeing; it's black, of course, and tight, like the one she wore to the play, but longer, and fancier.

"Nice," she says, nodding. "Where's Gina?"

"In there, trying stuff on. She asked me for her opinion and I told her no."

"No to the dress?"

"No to giving her my opinion."

Gina marches out of her stall, in an iridescent sequined number that Amy kinda hates, but of course Gina's pulling it off. "You look great," she says truthfully.

"Of course I do. Now, what did you manage to dig up?"

Amy hesitantly holds up her favorite of the dresses she's found: something she'd never be brave enough to wear, but isn't that the whole point of formal dances?

"I like it," Gina says approvingly. "Very bold. Very un-Amy. Go try it on!"

So Amy, alone in her stall, slips the dress over her head and looks at herself in the mirror for a moment. She looks-good, actually, better than she'd have thought. The dress is red (totally not because Jake said that was one of the colors he liked), made of some kind of satiny material with beading or something (all right, Amy doesn't know that much about dresses), fancy but not overstated. She actually likes it kind of a lot.

When she steps out, it seems like Gina and Rosa agree.

"Oh, girl, we are going to Hermione-Granger-in-Goblet-of-Fire the shit out of you," says Gina, and reaches over to pull Amy's hair out of its usual ponytail.

"Nice," says Rosa simply, and nods.

So, okay, she has a dress for winter formal.

She talks things over with Jake about a week before, and they agree that he'll pick her up outside her house and drive her over to the dance, and then she'll catch a ride home with Rosa. Separately. From Jake. She is not going anywhere with Jake post-winter-formal. She finds it pretty much impossible to overstate that point, because they are not dating and this is not a real date and she doesn't want anyone to forget it.

A few days before the dance, he texts her:

JAKE: so I got a suit

JAKE: for winter formal I mean

JAKE: and don't worry

JAKE: also a normal non-ugly tie

AMY: Good to hear.

JAKE: what color is your dress again? for corsage purposes

AMY: Red.

JAKE: ooooh nice. i like red

AMY: Do you? I didn't remember.

JAKE: liar

JAKE: is it weird that i'm excited for this?

AMY: Super weird.

It belatedly occurs to her, when he doesn't reply, that the sarcasm may not necessarily have come through in text-message format.

Jake's picking her up at seven, but she's ready two hours early. Her mom helps her dress her hair (in a non-pulled-back way, thank you very much, Gina) and do her makeup (light but flattering), and she has a little clutch purse that seems actually kind of impractical and a pair of high-heeled shoes that she's not entirely sure she can walk steadily on, let alone dance, and even though she's still kind of nervous about the dress, it does look good when she checks it in the mirror for the forty-eighth time.

She sits on the inside stairwell of her building, near the door, waiting to buzz him in, a book in her lap and her phone by her side. (She's supposed to call her parents to let them know she's arrived safely.)

Her father's just given her the no-alcohol-young-lady lecture when the doorbell rings, and she kisses him lightly, careful not to smudge her makeup, and heads downstairs quickly but not too quickly to answer the door.

It's not Jake, though, but a liveried man, and beyond him is a limousine.

She's frankly shocked. Even if Jake hadn't said he was broke, limos are just not Schur High's style. They're kind of-traditional. And romantic. Definitely romantic. A limo is not something you get for an evening with someone you're just going with as a friend.

Her heart starts fluttering, which she's fully aware is irrational. She starts coming up with things to say to him: "Wow, Peralta, whose dick did you suck to get this thing?" (Not appropriate.) "This is really nice, Jake." (Too bland.) "I can't believe you did this." (Too sincere.)

The driver holds the door open, and she steps in.

And Jake isn't there.

Instead, on the seat next to her there's a corsage, perfectly coordinated to her red dress, and a piece of paper, folded in half, with "Amy" written on the back in Jake's untidy scrawl.

She opens it to read.

"Hey. Sorry I bailed. I figured you should still go and have a good time, though. Enjoy the limo. -J."

That's all. No explanation. Nothing.

Jake Peralta stood her up.


	4. December, Part 2

Amy has no idea what to do. Acting on autopilot, she straps herself in, because safety first, and stares blankly at the floor, at her high heels, at her shaved and lotioned legs. She opens Jake's note again, reads it through again. It's no more illuminating the second time.

She's a little bit sad, and a lot embarrassed, but mostly she's pissed: pissed at Jake, for being a dickweed and standing her up, pissed at herself, for thinking that it was possible that he could have been taking this seriously, when she knew perfectly well that he never took anything seriously, pissed at Schur High for having a winter formal, pissed at Jake, because why not mention him twice?

And so now she has to show up alone, which should only be incredibly humiliating.

She spends the limo ride scrunching her face up to prevent herself from crying and smudging her makeup-because if she's going to walk into this dance dateless, she's gonna look fantastic while she does it.

Amy's neighbor Kylie, who goes to a different school, says that all their dances are in the gym because the administration's too cheap to have them anywhere else. But Schur High's gym is way too small to hold the entire junior and senior classes, plus external dates, and anyway their tuition is high enough (though Amy's on scholarship) that the school certainly ought to be able to rent out the ballroom of the Hilton, or whatever.

So the limo takes her across town, and lets her out by the front doors of the hotel, and she takes a deep breath and steels her nerves and walks in.

It's dark (which makes her wonder what the whole point of dressing up was, anyway), and the DJ's playing Daft Punk, and while her eyes adjust she scans the room for someone she recognizes.

Terry's there, but he's with his girlfriend on the dance floor, grinning like a maniac, and she knows even if she waved to him there's no way he'd see her.

She spots Gina grinding on some guy, looking like she probably had a beer or two at Hitchcock's "pre-party" party, the way her face is flushed and sweaty. She still looks great, though, for which Amy gives her full points.

"Santiago?"

She spins around to see Rosa and Charles standing behind her, scowling and grinning respectively.

"Where's Jake?" Charles asks, straightening his tie. "I want to show him my three-piece suit. We're gonna take formalwear selfies together."

"Yeah," adds Rosa. "I wanna see how dumb Peralta looks in a cummerbund."

Amy swallows. She knew this was coming-why didn't she spend the drive preparing a light and witty response, instead of feeling sorry for herself?

"He couldn't make it," she says instead.

"Is he sick?" Charles asks, alarmed. "Did he get food poisoning? I warned him about that hot dog stand, I really did…"

"I don't know," Amy admits.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" asks Rosa, while Charles pulls out his phone, presumably to text Jake. "You were his date. He had to tell you something."

"Yeah, well, he didn't," says Amy tersely, and Rosa, apparently recognizing that she wants to be left alone, lapses back into her trademark reticence.

"AMY!" Gina comes barrelling across the ballroom floor to them. "Girl, you look fantastic. I am so proud of myself right now. You were a little fashion-challenged caterpillar, in your hair-pulled-back cocoon, and now look, you're a beautiful sexually charged butterfly!"

"Thanks," Amy says uncomfortably.

"Where's Jake? Did you send him to go get you a drink? Because if so, fair warning, the punch is non-alcoholic and also disgusting."

"Jake's not here," says Rosa, and Amy shoots her a look of gratitude (though she's not sure how well it reads in the dim lighting), because if she has to explain that Jake stood her up one more time, she thinks she might throw up.

"Huh," says Gina, and raises her eyebrows in that I'm-smarter-than-I-seem way that she has, but leaves it at that. "Well, come dance with me then, butterfly girl! Fair warning, though, I may get handsy."

"I think I'll pass, thanks," says Amy, managing to scrounge up a weak smile. "I have to go to the bathroom."

She doesn't, not really, but she's only been there five minutes and already she's dying to leave.

It's all Jake's fault, she thinks, squirting the lotion that this hotel keeps next to its sinks onto her hands. If he hadn't asked her to this dance in the first place, she wouldn't be here right now in uncomfortable shoes and an uncharacteristically daring dress, feeling awkward and out of place.

What she doesn't quite admit to herself is the possibility that if he had shown up, she might actually have had fun.

On her way back into the ballroom, she bumps into someone.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaims, looking up-and it's Mr. Holt. "What are you doing here?" she blurts out tactlessly.

"I was asked to chaperone," he says, and, as usual, she can't tell from her tone whether he relishes or resents the situation.

"Are you having a good time?" she asks instead. "I mean, I can't imagine watching a bunch of hormonal teenagers gyrating on a dance floor is particularly amusing."

Holt's expression changes unreadably. "Isn't that why you're here, Miss Santiago?"

"Well…" she stutters, "I mean, it's a bit different. I'm one of those hormonal teenagers."

"Ah, yes. I imagine you have an escort with whom you are...ahem...gyrating?"

Amy can feel herself blushing. Discussing her romantic situation (not that her situation with Jake is anything remotely romantic!) with her English teacher is somehow both bizarre and typical.

"He, ah, didn't show up."

"Really? Was this Mr. Peralta, by chance?"  
"It was," Amy says, surprised. Holt doesn't seem like the type to notice or care about who's dating whom.

"Such deplorable etiquette seems markedly characteristic of that young man," Holt explains in response to her quizzical expression. "I hope, however, that you will not let that constrain you from enjoying the event. Surely there are others who would be more than willing to socialize with you."

Amy glows at the compliment-clearly Holt thinks well of her!-and resolves to follow her mentor's advice. Why let Jake ruin her evening? She looks great (Gina said so), almost all her friends are here...there's no reason not to have a good time.

She thanks Holt, and joins Rosa next to the refreshment table, where she's shotgunning snickerdoodles with aplomb.

"Oh, good, you came back," is all she says. Amy nods, and takes a snickerdoodle herself.

"Excuse me?"

It's an unfamiliar male voice, and an unfamiliar face-but she takes another glance, and, on second thought, maybe she has seen him somewhere before.

"Are you talking to me?" she asks, and cringes at how harsh it sounds.

"Yeah," the guy says. "Amy Santiago, right? You're in my calc class."

"Oh yeah!" That's where she knows him from, of course. He sits two rows in front of her and doodles SpongeBob in the margins of his notes. "You're...Teddy?"

"Yeah!" he says enthusiastically. "Listen, I was wondering, do you wanna dance with me? They're playing a pretty good song."

"So they are," says Amy redundantly.

He smiles, and she notices that he has dimples. "You seemed like you had cool taste in music."

"Well, uh, sure, let's dance!" she says quickly, realizing he's waiting for an answer. "Fair warning, though-I'm terrible."

"Oh, I'm sure you're fine," he says.

Jake would have told you how horrible you were, a treacherous part of her brain says, but she quiets it, and, taking Teddy's hand (which is a little sweaty, if she's being completely honest), moves onto the dance floor.

The song's beat's in that awkward place between slow-dance and fist-pumping, and she's not sure exactly what to do, but she decides just to follow Teddy's lead; he's kind of just swaying his torso side to side, in time with the music, and she does the same thing, staying a safe distance away, just in case he, in Gina's words, "gets handsy."

It's actually kind of fun, and Rosa sends her a "yeah girl" smile from across the room.

The song ends, and switches to a slow one, and just as she moves to go back to Rosa, Teddy moves to put his hands around her waist, like they're going to keep dancing. Instinctively, she recoils.

"Oh-" he says, pulling his hands back. "Sorry. Did you want, uh, to stop dancing?"

She's way too flustered to consider getting that close to a guy she barely knows.

"No," she says, then realizes how he phrased the question. "I mean, yes. I want to stop. Not that it's not fun! I just, you know, need a break."

"Yeah, no problem," Teddy says, raising his hand in a sort of goodbye pseudo-wave. "See you in calc, I guess."

"See you in calc."

After that, the rest of the night isn't so bad. She sits in a corner with Rosa and makes fun of all the ugliest dresses, and dances in a circle with Gina and Charles and some other people during the upbeat songs, and eats a bunch more snickerdoodles.

"How was your night?" her mom asks, after Rosa drops her off at home.

"Good," she answers, and it's only kind of a lie.

On Monday, she breezes right past Jake on her way into AP English, fixing her gaze resolutely ahead of her and away from him.

"Hey, Amy," he says, sitting down in his customary place next to her, and she changes desks so they're no longer near enough to talk without attracting Holt's attention.

Jake apparently doesn't care about attracting Holt's attention, though, because he just says "Hey, Amy," in a louder voice.

"I'm not speaking to you," she says primly, still looking straight ahead.

"You just did!" he replies immediately, and even though she can't see his face she just knows he's got that wiseass grin on.

"That doesn't count."

"Oh, see, now you're obviously talking to me," he says, but she doesn't answer, because why dig herself deeper into this logical hole?

"Come on, Amy," he says after a moment of silence. "You can't be that mad. I sent you a freakin' limo! That cost all of the money I was saving for Jay-Z tickets. Do you know what that means to me?"

"You were saving that money for Taylor Swift tickets," she retorts without thinking.

"Aw, see, I knew you couldn't go without talking to me."

"Aberration," she says coldly.

"We're basically having a conversation! I know you're mad. I know what I did was a little bit of a dick move, okay?"

"A little?" she says, unable to contain herself. "Jake, I got dressed up and waited for you. I shaved my legs! In December! Do you know how frequently I shave my legs in December? Not frequently! I spent an unholy amount of money on a dress I'll probably never wear again! And it's not like I was all that sold on the idea of going to this thing with you in the first place! If you didn't want to come, why didn't you just not ask me? Or at least cancel, by, I don't know, calling or something, in the morning, not at seven the night of the dance, via limo-post!"

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "Honestly. I didn't know you'd be this mad, I swear."

"I thought we were friends," Amy says, turning to look at him at last. "And friends don't stand friends up with zero explanation!"

"I have an explanation, if you'd give me a chance to say it!"

"All right. Go ahead. Explain."

But instead of bursting out right away with some glib story, he falls silent.

"Well?" she asks, after a moment.

"Never mind," he mutters, and turns away from her to look at the front of the classroom. "Just-forget it."

"I'm not going to forget it," Amy hisses, but she has to do it under her breath because Holt's started talking. "I'm mad at you. And you can forget about borrowing my history notes anytime soon!"

But now Jake's the one not talking.


End file.
